


In The Darkness & Howling

by deathofaraven



Series: self-indulgent AUs no one asked for [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (briefly mentioned and entirely offscreen), (you don't need to have played Bloodborne to read this), Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Asexuality Spectrum, Blood Magic, Curses, Horror Elements, I think the ending's hopeful..., Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Inspired by Bloodborne, M/M, Mild Gore, Monsters, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Violence, Witches, all canon friendships and relationships apply, hypoempathetic autistic Sherlock Holmes, re the ship stuff:, the world...is darker than I intended whoops, undetailed self-harm (because of the blood magic)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26415967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: “Oh, don’t you worry. Whatever happens...you may think it all a mere bad dream…”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Series: self-indulgent AUs no one asked for [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920061
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14





	1. I. The Cynic

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping like fuck that the tags didn't scare all of you away. LOL I probably should've tagged "tfw the world is horrible but your ship are socially awkward nerds", but...too late. I blame Bloodborne (which, seriously, you don't need to play before reading this--it's only mildly inspired by it) and a lack of self-control for this. Huge thanks to my beta-reader and everyone who's been offering me advice while I write. I appreciate it all immensely. <3 If anything doesn't make sense, I fully intend to explain it in a later chapter.
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys!
> 
> (Credits:  
> Title: _King ~ The Amazing Devil_  
>  Summary: _Bloodborne (2015)_ )  
> \--
> 
> _“Curse the fiends, their children too, and their children, forever true.” - (Bloodborne: The Old Hunters)_

_“It’s not ours to question where the Nightmares come from. The point is not to fear them. They can’t keep you if you’re not afraid,” Sherlock’s father tells him one night._

_Of course Sherlock won’t notice for many years that his father doesn’t entirely believe the words—that he_ is _afraid and nothing is likely to change that—but he’s eight the first time he hears them and too preoccupied to notice. Tonight he’s learning what he’s been promised is an essential magical skill: sewing. It’s fiddly work for his small fingers, but he guesses it’ll be useful. After all, his older brother, Mycroft, had to learn before he went off to school and_ he _only ever learns useful things. Besides, Sherlock has seen Mummy sew loads of things: clothes, toys, spells, and flesh. (Mummy was_ supposed _to be supervising his study, but it’s a Dead Moon and she’s having a difficult time remembering them, so the role has fallen onto his father’s shoulders.) So Sherlock’s giving it a proper go._ We’re going to alter something you usually wear in your dreams, _had been his father’s exact words, which has led to him clumsily stitching over the buttonholes of his favourite coat in thick red thread. Red, for remembrance, because it’ll help him deduce whether or not the reality he perceives is real._

 _Not that knowing the difference between dreams and reality make any difference when it comes to things other than Nightmares. Beasts, for instance, care for nothing but blood and bone, and he_ is _quite scared of beasts._ None of you have anything to worry about, _his teacher promises the class with a hesitant smile every month,_ witches never become beasts. _But Sherlock knows that’s rubbish. Witches may not become beasts very often, but, when they do, they become the most terrifying beasts of all._

_“Do beasts have dreams?” Sherlock asks, attempting to tie off the thread as he finishes with a buttonhole._

_His father frowns into his tea instead of immediately answering. They both try not to flinch as a snarl erupts from the floor above them, rattling the thick chains and sturdy locks on Mummy’s bedroom door. (And Sherlock tries very hard not to think about Eurus or Redbeard—he’s learnt to stop asking what happened; it wouldn’t be a good idea to focus on it now.)_

_“I doubt anyone knows,” comes the eventual answer. “But the Nightmares never take them.”_

_For a moment, it looks as though his father might say more. But all he does is set aside his cup and help Sherlock rethread his needle._

* * *

Even with his coat fully buttoned, it’s cold. It’s only an hour or so after dawn; a waning sliver of a moon peers despondently through the dead leaves of the nearby trees as his footsteps crunch over half-frozen grass. He’s aware of a tiny crowd standing outside a row of dirty-bricked terraced houses, separated from his current position only by an iron fence, the pavement, and a small stretch of tarmac, but the police can handle them so they fall out of his immediate scope of concerns.

There’s a witch pinned to a tree in Deptford Park, an appalling lack of evidence, and Sherlock’s inclined to think that’s, momentarily, far more pressing.

He’s already looked over the area, disappointed by what little he’s found—a couple partial footprints, trampled grass, a few broken branches, and a small puddle of the victim’s blood. According to the sergeant who’d first arrived on scene, the victim’s name is Siân Price. Late twenties; hazel eyes and brown hair falling like a widow’s veil down past her waist. She’s slumped like a broken doll, only held up by the sturdy length of pipe speared through her diaphragm; dead for almost two hours now. One of the witnesses, another witch with tear-stained cheeks and shaking hands who Sherlock hasn’t bothered to get the name of, had said a man had approached Price as she’d left her friend’s home. He’d shouted something about beasts; she’d attempted to flee. It’s an entirely unremarkable case so close to a Dead Moon. Sherlock suspects there wouldn’t be a human-looking corpse here if Price _had_ been a beast (or, rather, there would be far _more_ corpses, as well as smashed open houses) and, upon carefully lifting her head for inspection, is proven correct. Teeth, eyes, nails, musculature, skin, and hair—absolutely no signs of beasthood. It would’ve been impossible to hide if there were.

But he _does_ spot something odd. Red lipstick and nail polish. Red jewellery. Red lines tattooed around each of her fingers in the same style as the singular line around Sherlock’s wrist. It’s odd only in the colour’s abundance. Most witches were perfectly content with their singular tokens, well aware that, if the Nightmare truly wanted them, nothing would save them. But this one.... _You were afraid. Why were you afraid?_

 _Look. See me_ , something seems to whisper back in response to his thoughts, melting into the mild breeze. Or maybe it’s only the product of an overactive imagination; he’s never certain.

If it were a closed crime scene and all these _people_ weren’t here, he could remove his gloves, take her hand, and feel for the remnants of her spirit so that he, and Dimmock, could ask whatever questions they may have and perhaps get answers in turn. A light bit of necromancy or the magical equivalent of running mental fingers through her soul to comb out an answer or two. But he’s not certain he has that kind of power and he knows he lacks the appropriate levels of focus and mental calm—a panic attack would follow the attempt and they’d get nothing. But here and now? No, he can’t consider it. Besides, John (and he doesn’t want to think about John; not right now) had always made an effort to keep Sherlock’s magic off his blog—to ensure Sherlock always had a fair chance with other humans, without any of the stigma or judgement or suspicion that could come purely from him being a witch. He won’t try to change that now. If they want to know anything about Price or the man who attacked her, they’ll have to do this the _normal_ way.

Sherlock steps away from Price and makes his way over to one of the forensic technicians crouching over a box. He glances thoughtfully around, considering available CCTV options and possible places to search. “Was there anything in her pockets?”

They take a moment before finding and holding out Price’s wallet. “Just this.”

He takes it with care. There’s a pair of enchanted blood vials hidden under it, a side favour no one needs to know about if only because of its magically illicit nature, and he makes sure they’re safely in his hands as he checks through the wallet. Nothing looks to be taken; even a tiny spell tablet is still in place—protection that didn’t seem to have done its job. Sherlock memorises Price’s address with a glance before handing it back and walking away, pocketing the blood vials as he tucks his gloves back into his coat pocket. Dimmock, tired and a bit ragged-looking this morning, gives him a hopeful look as he approaches; Sherlock only gives the barest shake of his head before giving him a quick explanation of what little he’s found. It’s nothing they don’t already know and soon he’s on his way, Dimmock calling after him to keep him informed.

Unfortunately, this looks to be nothing more than what it appears. The man that murdered Price was probably not far off from beasthood himself—violent paranoia is usually one of the early symptoms. They’ll undoubtedly find him soon, snarling with bloodlust or having barricaded himself in his home if he’s realised what’s coming. But Sherlock is willing to look into Price just in case there’s anything of interest there. It’s the preferable option, he decides as he tries to stop a cab, to returning home to his empty flat and Mrs. Hudson’s gentle concern. He can’t face that; not when there’s work to be done.

* * *

All witches were born with an innate ability—something that manifested in childhood and was meant to be nurtured and grow as the child did. Sherlock had caught a witch once who had used his ability to change bars of gold into bricks (and eventually back again) to make for an easier time of stealing them. One of his experiments from uni had decided to stop seeing him in order to date a woman who could calm and befriend any animal with a single word. He’d been healed once by a witch that could take any injury away from someone, but only at the cost of bearing the injury themself. Little, highly individualised things that Sherlock had always suspected were supposed to function as a summation of the witch that bore them. That didn’t mean it was always a useful, or even welcome, ability. Mycroft, for instance, had developed “the gift of foresight”, as their doctor had called it in sombre tones—as if Mycroft should have felt honoured to See the result of every important decision being made around him. But, as useful as it may have been to use it to keep Sherlock from wreaking havoc on his bedroom when they were children, as Mycroft’s worldview began to expand, so to did the range of things he began to See...as did the need to learn how to block out the visions and deal with both the stress and the migraines they created. And then there had been Eurus and her eerily high level of hyperempathy that had been impossible to control (but he physically _can’t_ think about that and isn’t entirely willing to try).

Sherlock had always made an effort to ignore his own ability. Soul manipulation, he’d been told repeatedly throughout his youth, was a finicky and “elegant” type of magic, capable of finding another person’s spirit and coaxing them into...whatever the wielder wanted. Even bringing them temporarily back from the dead, if the user was immensely powerful. He’d never bothered to learn more than the most basic forms of use. _It’s stupid,_ he’d told his parents at the age of ten, teaching himself how to summon and dissipate fire. _It interferes with my work; imagine how boring it would be if I didn’t have to wait until I found proof,_ he’d snapped at Mycroft at twenty-three, pocketing a book on defensive warding as he skulked out of his flat. _There’s no point to forcing someone into telling the truth when there’s no guarantee they’re not only saying what I_ want _them to say, as opposed to the genuine truth,_ he’d said to John, thirty-one and sitting in Lestrade’s office, waiting for information on a case. The truth was far more complicated: he had never been able to make the spells work. Pulling on that much magic had only ever summoned a steadily rising panic, an itch under his skin like screaming and the need to run. Echoes of something he couldn’t remember. And so he’d made a point of learning practical, useful spells instead; had put all his faith into his mind and the power of logic and reason, which he was _certain_ was more flexible and reliable than some strange power.

Besides, he doesn’t need magic to know things are about to get very awkward as he approaches a block of flats near the riverfront in Hammersmith.

It’s just after ten in the morning but there’s a dusk-like foghaze to the sky that’s been there since long before Sherlock was born, leaving the sun a vague, muted glow. Curse scarred, some people claimed, ever since the Nightmares began. Whatever the cause, it left the days cold and the nights colder, and this street is cold enough without it. The only movement is a light breeze skittering some dead leaves in the gutter and the distant, lethargic _lap-lap-lap_ of the Thames past a battered iron railing. Every window is barred or shuttered; every door is heavily reinforced. A pair of bicycles sit awkwardly beside a small yellow car whose entire length has been marred by deeply clawed gouges. He feels distinctly unwelcome, but that’s hardly a new feeling.

The oddly cheerful chirp of birdsong from the barren trees lining the street feels somehow sacrilegious to the quiet as he buzzes Price’s flat. It takes a moment and the intercom is crackly when he finally gets a response.

“‘Lo?” a man greets distractedly.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes; I’m a consulting detective. I’m here to discuss Siân Price.”

No response. The silence feels heavy, like a shift in air pressure before a thunderstorm, and it lingers too long. He’s just begun to wonder if he’s about to be turned away when: “Is she dead?”

“...yes.”

“Come up.”

It’s nicer inside than out; clean and furnished in pleasantly neutral tones. The air is thick with spells—a particular protective ward the Church had stolen and marketed as a Holy Incense, the only thing capable of protecting humans from the beasts or so they claimed—as he ascends the stairs. It’s much less quiet than out on the street as well. From one floor, a television blares too loudly, blessedly incoherent with walls between him and it. As he reaches the penultimate floor, he can hear small children playing loudly in the flat across from Price’s. He isn’t sure how he feels as he’s let inside.

He catches a brief glance of a cream-coloured room and the corner of a hospital-esque bed through a nearby doorway before he refocuses on the entranceway and tiny kitchen adjacent to it. The voice from the intercom introduces himself as Will (human, dark-skinned, at most a couple years older than Sherlock; he has an alchemical syndicate’s insignia on his t-shirt, a work-issued design, that’s given him away as one of the few still attempting to mix science and magic—Sherlock has always found them interesting). He looks too tired, even for grief, and they take up a pair of old armchairs in the living room. Even the warm floral pattern of the wallpaper and the abundance of books and clutter isn’t enough to soften the uncomfortable silence.

“Was it the Church? Did they...have s’mthing to do with it?” Will asks with a frankness that should be alarming.

Sherlock can only blink at him as his thoughts recalibrate. That...wasn’t even on his list of anticipated questions. He’d expected crying, disbelief, maybe anger. Not bitter logic, even if it helps him from having to figure out how to display compassion he’s never understood how to show. “It appeared to be a random attack. Why would you suspect the Church?”

Will hesitates, fiddling with the frayed edge of a tear in his jeans. “Siân is, _was_ a cursebreaker and translator for magical items. She hopped about; museums, freelance, whatever. Eight months ago, she finished a job on some ritual pots for a museum an’ someone brought in this journal from...I think...seventeen-eighty-something. Our girlfriend, Elisabeth, was also on the project. After a couple weeks they were both convinced the text had to do with how the Nightmares started.”

“Did it?”

“Dunno,” Will shrugs, exhaustion saturating every line of his body. “They went back to work after the weekend and everything was confiscated. No one said by who; told them not to ask. Siân thought it was the Church, not...some government thing. Not enough paperwork or whatever left behind for the government.”

Something brushes lightly against Sherlock’s ankles. He looks down to find a slate-coloured lykoi staring up at him like a tiny, stern werewolf; it immediately yawns and flops onto its side, purring and attempting to maul his shoelaces with kitten-like enthusiasm.

“You think that led to the Church attempting to kill her?” he asks, reaching down to skritch under the cat’s chin.

Will gives another tight shrug, as if he’s had to deal with this subject and the potential outcome of it for far too long to speak at length. “Bethy went into a Nightmare a month after. Now this. I’ve heard about you—you’re s’pposed to be one of the best detectives, aren’t you? What do you _deduce_ from it?”

An uncomfortable twinge jolts Sherlock’s stomach at Will’s tone. He doesn’t know and, for once, he’s not ashamed to say so. There’s not enough information, either at the scene of Price’s murder or in Will’s story about the confiscated journal—which they’d clearly found odd but not enough to have made full notes upon at the time—and hypothesising on so little is bound to not produce an accurate conclusion. It’s not a _happy_ thought, leaving this without answers, but this wouldn’t be the first case where suspicion and horrible timing made everything inconclusive.

Sherlock hands over contact information, both for himself, in the event anything more concerning happens, and for Dimmock, and gives the cat a couple more pats as they address a couple questions on Sherlock’s mental list and say goodbye.

Will’s question follows Sherlock on the cab ride home. Nightmares didn’t seem to have any particular pattern—alchemists had attempted to run studies in the past and had never managed to find any connection between the victims. He’d heard of people of every age falling into one, including a newborn. The pattern of beasthood is similar; the only thing everyone has had in common is that they’d spent a lot of time away from protective spells after dark, but even that isn’t a guarantee that someone will succumb to...whatever it is the Nightmares trigger within someone. The abruptness seems more like a spell than anything science could produce. It’s entirely possible a witch from long ago had something to do with creating it—it lends well to Price’s theory and the Nightmares haven’t existed forever—but, if so, he doesn’t want to imagine _why_ someone would go out of their way to hide that information. Power and control, obviously, must play into it. But he doesn’t see the benefit of letting beasts roam the streets or dooming people to a fate little better than a coma.

This isn’t a game or some clever scheme, it’s just pointless cruelty.

But say all of that was wrong. What if, for the sake of arguing with himself, it was something borne of misguided science? Or worse: intentionally malicious science. What if the journal had been recording the start, not the creation itself, of the Nightmares? It was worth investigating, though Sherlock had to admit that it wasn’t a field he’d ever bothered to rummage around in. He prefers immediately useful information, not hypotheticals that he may never see the results of. But it _is_ two days prior to a Dead Moon and he needs something to occupy his time beyond waiting and dwelling on the silence as he searches for something, _anything_ , to do.

It’s a point that seems to drive harder into him when he finally returns home to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson’s gone out. Everything is still and too-quiet, dim but for motes of dusty sunlight slashing pale lines across the hardwood floors and threadbare rug through gaps in the thick curtains. Too still. His violin lies abandoned at his desk, collecting dust. In the kitchen, half-cleaned lab equipment sits beside his battered autoclave, waiting. He has an odd sensation of also waiting for something that hasn’t, _won’t_ ever happen. A return to former normalcy, if he _really_ had to guess. It’s been three months but he still expects to find John sitting in his chair or messing about in the kitchen. And that’s stupid because John hadn’t lived here in well over a year before...that night. But it’s the hope that John might drop in that’s hard to shake. He takes a moment to allow it to wash over him, drinking in the bitterness, before forcing it back down, out of his thoughts. He puts Price’s blood samples in the fridge along with previous donations and goes to make a cup of tea instead.

Emails and texts. Messaging his contacts and taking some time to think. Perhaps gathering resources. He doubts there’s much for him in the way of work for the next few days, but that’s close enough for now.

* * *

Twelve hours later and Sherlock has been proven wrong. He’s barely dozed off before his mobile’s lit up with several texts from Dimmock. One is an address, the rest are progressively less calm.

_We found him._

_The man from the Price case. How soon can you get here?_

_Get down here now._

By the time Sherlock arrives, it’s ten minutes to midnight and whatever danger there might’ve been is passed. It’s just him and Dimmock looking down at a mass of fur and thick, knobbly hide as a team—all witches, reeking with the burnt floral musk of spells—check for any missed evidence and prepare to have the body moved. He takes a moment to study the beast as Dimmock explains how they received a tip that a man who matched the description of Price’s murderer, a man who turned out to be named Charlie Thomas, had been lurking around a cluster of abandoned factories. Dimmock had gone to look into it, or at least send home whoever it was if it turned out to be a kid wandering where they weren’t supposed to. Thomas had panicked, ran, and the beast had taken over. Sherlock suspects Dimmock’s leaving out the part where _he_ panicked and ran as well. There aren’t any signs of electrical burns on the body or singed fur amidst the deep cuts carved into Thomas’s flesh and Dimmock has always had an affinity for lightning.

“What were you expecting me to do, Inspector? Check his pockets?” Sherlock quips with a pointed look. The beast clearly isn’t wearing pants, let alone anything with pockets.

Dimmock gives him a wry attempt at a smile. “I thought you’d like to feel involved.”

They share a quiet not-smile before the moment fades and, once again, they’re two men staring down at a corpse.

“I don’t know how it, the detection thing, works but...hoped you’d see something we can’t.”

He wants to point out that his deductive ability isn’t a spell or anything magical. It’s years of careful study and practice, a skill he’s built for most of his life. But, even with a detailed description of how it works, people rarely believe him. Instead, he says: “Show me where you found him.”

Dimmock does. It’s not a very long walk—over to a concrete stoop behind one locked old building, threading between a couple others, and back to where Thomas’s corpse still lies. Sherlock stops several times along the way, checking through some bits of gravel or rubbish and comparing Thomas’s shoe-prints with a partial he’d gotten a photo of near Price’s body. They’re a close match, but that’s hardly as definitive as he’d like it to be. And something about this location, the quickness of Thomas’s discovery...it all feels too _clean_ , prearranged, and he remembers Will’s accusation that someone powerful might have been behind it.

Watching a pair of constables get a tarp over Thomas, he decides it’s less unlikely than he’d originally thought. How difficult would it really be to find someone vulnerable, on the verge of beasthood, and point them, like a loaded gun, at a victim of one’s choosing? He suspects it’d be alarmingly easy, especially for an experienced manipulator.

“—nd the Church won’t sod off,” Dimmock is saying, not having noticed the shift in Sherlock’s focus as their steps slow to a stop.

He has some of it now. And Sherlock follows his gaze towards an indistinct-looking brunette standing off to the side of the crime scene. There’s something self-satisfied about him; the black-and-white of a clerical uniform is unmistakable. At first glance he seems to be leaning on a walking stick, but the blue flash of light from one of the cars catches him and Sherlock realises it’s a halberd—half of the handle smashed off and the pointed tip sinking into the ground. That explains how Thomas was killed, then. He suspects the blade would match the wounds hacked into the beast's hide. But he can’t say he’s surprised.

“Did he say anything?”

“No,” Dimmock replies with a frown. “The usual nonsense ‘bout how it’s ‘clerics’ duty to stop aberrations’. Won’t say how he knew to be here when he did.”

Again, Sherlock isn’t surprised. He wonders, if he went up to the cleric and asked, if he’d have an answer for where the Church’s sense of duty was when an enormous wolf-like beast had roamed the outskirts of Cork, ripping anyone in its territory to bits for over a year. And where it had been when someone had turned into a beast in the middle of Waterloo Bridge, leaving the bridge wrapped in scaly tentacles for weeks. Doubtful.

It’s far more likely the cleric will give him non-answers until Sherlock is annoyed and decides to leave. Not worth his time.

“Anything else? ...you want to look into, that is,” Dimmock adds, looking tired and annoyed and in no way eager for the paperwork awaiting him back at the Yard.

Sherlock pauses briefly, considering. It could be useful to have Dimmock aware of the possibility of the Church’s involvement in the case, but it’s unlikely to produce a result. He doubts even Mycroft could get very far with it (publicly, of course) if they were accused. He works to repress the urge to sigh. It’s incredibly vexing, being forced into a position of incompetence. He tries not to let it show on his features, feeling frustration burn on the back of his tongue, tightening his throat and forcing an uncomfortable, off-beat thud to his pulse.

“Text me if you get any results from the lab,” Sherlock finally says.

Without further ado, he turns on his heel and starts for the road, barely acknowledging Dimmock’s acquiescence. He might not be able to do anything about the Church, but he can look into the Nightmares. Discover if Price and her partners were correct and there is some resource out there that can shed light onto how all of this started. And how to potentially stop it. He just needs to search in the right place.

* * *

The search for information on where the Nightmares came from is messy and fruitless; he doesn’t have the resources to investigate the way he’d like so most of his intel is secondhand from his homeless network, or contacts situated elsewhere, or gathered from books with the barest shreds of use. Early spring drags into summer and mid-autumn as he searches and is led ‘round and ‘round into circles.

 _“It wasn’t us,”_ say the humans and the Church. _“It was the witches and their unholy magic.”_

 _“It couldn’t have been us,”_ the old covens say, crones staring aghast at him when he dares to ask. _“We’d never—it must have been someone misusing our powers.”_

 _“It_ might _have been us,”_ the alchemical syndicates hesitantly admit, _“but it’s not something any of us recognise or could replicate.”_

And then, like the abrupt turning of a switch, something seems to change. Or, perhaps, a decision was made that he isn’t aware of; Sherlock couldn’t say, except that there’s suddenly an entirely new strand of information being waved before him.

 _“There’s a witch with no name,”_ the magical community says.

 _“—a problem-solver,”_ the underworld says.

 _“—a mastermind,”_ his contact in MI5 says.

_“He might know. Ask him.”_


	2. II. The Seer

“He functions like a businessman, but he’s _fussy_. He likes to be entertained,” one of Sherlock’s contacts, an elegant middle-aged woman with a strong jaw and an even stronger Geordie accent, warns him with a smile as she hands him a slip of paper with an address on it. He vacillates over it, taking his time to weigh his options and the potential of wandering into a place of some mystery person’s choosing as he also takes a few minutes to have a cigarette. It could be a trap. An ambush. It could be what he’s been looking for.

The address leads to a street in Ealing lined with semi-attached houses, grey-brown front gardens, and a general air of sullen sombreness that the bleak mid-morning sunlight only seems to add to. A tiny old woman in a pastel floral dress gives him a chipper wave from her front door as she beckons an equally tiny terrier inside; Sherlock inclines his head in return, feeling a bit thrown. This isn’t where he expected to find some mysterious “problem-solver” that seems to make even government agents apprehensive; he’d expected to be guided towards some expensive, modern flat in the heart of the city, situated like fingers on a pulse—but maybe there’s something clever in that. He doesn’t know what, exactly, this man’s business entails, but perhaps his location keeps enemies, should he have any, at bay.

Sherlock runs his thumb against the side of his index finger, feeling the edge of his thumbnail drag lightly against his skin. He’s well aware he’s procrastinating, delaying in a beat of uncertainty. He’s curious, and this is the sort of mystery that’s always dragged him deep into its depths, but he _hates_ riddles. Hates having his time wasted on pseudo-clever exploits that slough into egomaniacal nonsense like wet papier-mâché the second he delves into them. And the way he’s been led about reeks of someone trying to taunt him with riddles. He could get a cab, go home, try a different tactic; but that feels like giving up and he refuses to leave a path untravelled just because the start of his map is incomplete.

He forces his attention back to the house (grey plaster, vestiges of late Victorian design in its architecture, dying ivy wrapping its way up a pair of old gutter pipes and beginning its assault towards one of the right-hand side’s windows). An odd sensation creeps up on him as he takes a step forward; he recognises it as a spell—something telling him to leave, _now_ , because he’s not wanted and doesn’t have permission to be here—but not an immediate concern or threat. There’s also a strange shimmer to the air just above where an unfamiliar sigil has been carved into the pavement leading into the front garden. _Another spell?_ Sherlock tilts his head, letting his focus slip a little. Past what he knows he’s _supposed_ to see. The air ripples again, flickers of vibrant autumnal foliage peeking out at him. _Illusions? Perhaps_. Though he wonders, as he collects himself, whether the illusions are directed out at passersby or towards the house’s inhabitants.

Smiling a little to himself, he starts for the door.

As Sherlock steps over the sigil, the desolation of the front garden begins to shift—trees growing tall and lush, shrubbery flourishing, delicate flowers peeking through a riot of orange, yellow, and slowly browning leaves. It reminds him of a very old painting he’d once seen a print of, vibrant and alive in a way nothing had been since the Nightmares came. Even the air is warmer, like Sherlock imagines it would be if he could stand in unhindered sunlight. It’s a truly impressive bit of magic. Illusion spells are notoriously difficult to get anywhere close to perfect—the edges will fail to blend with reality or things will overlap oddly; scents and sounds and differences in light can break through and they can get fuzzy or distorted if the caster doesn’t devote their entire concentration to it. This is seamless, rare verging on improbable to see, and all the more impressive for it. It also gives a new context to the ripple over the sigil and its timing—he’s being shown off for, invited to take a closer look. He can’t deny there’s something gratifying about that idea.

It’s one that takes root, twists his mood with the faintest touch of disquiet, as he discovers an envelope with his name on it has been affixed to the front door. He makes note of the stationary, the seal, the type of pen used without making a conscious effort to do so before he opens it. Inside, there’s only a single line of text in a hurried, left-handed scrawl.

_Come in._

Sherlock’s smile doesn’t fade.

The door is locked, magically sealed, but that’s not a problem. Breaking a ward, even temporarily, requires a strong awareness of how magic flows and resonates. In theory, _he_ can do it with ease. In practise, he doesn’t feel up to a panic attack today. It’s hardly a problem either. He has a stickpin and an enchanted blood vial in his pocket and a steadily growing curiosity that demands to be sated; he’s not going to back down from a simple challenge.

Blood magic had been created as a means to ease the strain of a ritual on a witch’s body, mind, and magic. The blood amplified the spell, quickened it, and reduced the chance of complications that might arise during a complicated spell’s formation. _Yes,_ it was a _bit_ frowned upon, but Sherlock suspects that, if those who found it distasteful were abruptly cut off from their powers and had access to the occasional donation, they would feel differently.

He discreetly jabs the pin into his index finger and waits for a drop of blood to well up—it doesn’t always; a history of substance abuse has wreaked havoc on his vascular system—before taking the doorknob back in hand. It takes the tiniest questioning spark of magic. Pulsing out like a gentle greeting as if to say _hello, I’m here, where are you?_ The ward responds in a delicate rhythm, like notes on a piano. Rolls over him in soft waves. Despite the seeming fragility of the spell’s signature, it’s immovable and feels vaguely familiar (though he suspects that’s something to sort out once he’s broken through). If he pushes too hard or too quickly, he’ll be lucky if the ward doesn’t kill him. So he lets his own magic ease around the ward instead, falling into careful harmony with it. A duet, gently swirling them both languidly together until the ward allows him to reach the lock. He gently pulls…

...and the lock clicks open. No alarms or nearly dying, just the slight give of the door as he tries the knob.

Sherlock enters into a small hallway furnished in neutral tones; it ends too abruptly, as if it used to be longer and had been designed with that in mind, and is flanked by two wooden doors. To his left, a simple door. To his right, a sturdier, more ornate one. He’s aware that the ornate one is where he’s _supposed_ to go—it’s a purposeful design choice to lure anyone who’s been invited precisely where this man _wants_ them to be—but it doesn’t keep him from hesitating, considering what might be behind the simpler door. It’s tempting to have a look. But...there’s always a chance of running into another, more powerful, ward and he _was_ invited in.

In front of him is a little parlour-like area that’s been so obviously and precisely staged that it may as well have been cut from a magazine. Behind it is a pair of bi-fold sliding doors, partially open. Sherlock’s well aware that the polite thing to do is to sit and wait but all anyone would have to do is ask his brother to know he’s never been particularly good at that. He slides a door fully open and wanders further in. At one point, there was probably another flat here but it’s clearly been gone a long while; in its place is a massive study. Bookcases line one wall and seem to have made their way up onto the first floor’s balcony. It’s inoffensively cluttered, like the room’s owner _wants_ to be tidy but is often too busy to clean up: books, papers, mechanical _things_ , computer parts, and magical paraphernalia all sprawled in small piles, taking over side tables and desk space. A chalkboard, so large it seems to have been pilfered from some old university ages ago, takes up most of another wall; a diagram of something lens-like in one corner, surrounded by hastily scribbled shorthand, while the rest is under assault from a truly terrifying string of equations that look to have been written in such an aggressive fervour that they might as well be the survivors of a violent battle—man vs numbers. Sherlock thinks it has something to do with light, but whatever love he might’ve conceivably had for numbers died while growing up with a mathematician and he’s exceedingly out of practice beyond the realm of chemistry. At the very least, he can appreciate its complexity.

It’s very quiet here. _Still_. Not in the eerie way that streets in the city proper can be, drenched in fear and tension. But in the way Baker Street could be some nights—warm and comfortable. Everything smells of old books, cologne and spell smoke intertwining with chalk dust. Strangely soothing. Sherlock idly runs his fingers over a stack of papers, feeling the grooves of pen indentations against his fingertips, before picking them up and leafing through them. He’s not looking for anything in particular. He just doesn’t know where to go next. Up the little wrought spiral stair tucked into the back corner of the room? Back into the hallway to check the other door? Perhaps. Both hold an equal amount of not-quite appeal—he’d rather the correct choice were more obvious. And he’d rather not go back to the waiting area to have a seat until this man decides to make himself known, but he supposes that’s an option as well.

It would probably be a good idea to decide quickly, he knows. He has another stop he has to make after this and poking about is only likely to delay him longer than it may actually help.

“Do you make a habit of reading people’s mail, too?” a voice calls from the balcony a half-second after Sherlock realises he’s being watched.

Sherlock manages to keep from starting, but only just. Though it’s happened before on rare occasions, it’s not often that he’s caught snooping in someone’s things. He can’t keep the corner of his mouth from tugging up into a brief half-smile as he turns to the voice. “I was invited.”

He’s immediately thrown off his mental footing. The witch standing at the upper railing is about Sherlock’s age, average height, and has something in the way he carries himself that says he’s used to not being noticed and prefers it that way. Sherlock doesn’t at all trust how delicate his magic feels, like a feather brushing against his skin. _No one’s_ magic feels that light except by design; no one would bother hiding their power unless there was a frighteningly large amount of it to hide. None of that is initially what surprises him, however— _that_ comes later, after he’s spent a couple seconds blinking and questioning his previous statement. The witch is wearing sleep-wrinkled pyjamas and a t-shirt; his hair looks like it’d only submit the angles of its rebellion to a shower. There’s something lightly dazed and generally rumpled to his entire bearing, as if he’d _just_ leapt out of bed. But his eyes are sharp, missing nothing, and seem to pull Sherlock in even at this distance. There’s a beat of pause as he considers Sherlock’s words before he shifts, stretching his neck from side to side and letting it roll into a somehow passive-aggressive half-shrug.

“Too slow, Sherlock—you’re a day late.”

 _Oh. Oops._ Sherlock manages not to frown, his earlier success with the ward slightly dampened by the loss of a challenge he hadn’t even known had been issued. The witch isn’t shooing him out the door, though, so he’s willing to infer that means it hasn’t ruined this...meeting? Whatever this is. Just lowered the witch’s expectations. He decides not to linger over it.

“Apparently. And you are…?”

The witch’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his face implies a brief smile at the turning of his words. “Jim Moriarty. ...Consulting.”

He only just manages to keep from asking what, _precisely_ , Moriarty consults on. If the variety of problems Sherlock is aware he’s been hired for is any indication, it’s whatever takes his interest at any given moment—Sherlock can’t help but approve. An uninteresting job isn’t worth the effort. But even if this assumption isn’t as true as he thinks, Moriarty’s still said to have better connections than any other consultant that Sherlock knows, including himself. As long as _that_ ’s true, it’s useful to be here.

Sherlock sets the papers back on the desk behind him without looking at them. Makes an effort to look neither hesitant nor too eager. “So I’ve heard. The people who have previously hired you appear to be suitably impressed; they say you have a... _skill_. For solving impossible problems.”

“You do too, according to the newspapers _and_ the internet. Neither of which would _ever_ lie,” Moriarty deadpans, pushing off the railing in an almost imperceptible stretch. “Why? D’you have something for me?”

Sherlock wonders if there’s meant to be an innuendo there or not, but Moriarty’s tone hasn’t changed even if his gaze _did_ shift. He marks it down as poor timing and casts the thought aside. There are more important things to think about. “The Nightmares. I need information on how they began.”

“And you think I’ll help you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He pauses, considering. Not his answer, which he suspects should be obvious enough, but why Moriarty would ask. “Nothing I’ve heard or seen suggests you’re the sort to hide from a difficult problem.”

Moriarty slowly shakes his head, amusement flickering over his features. “Why do you _want_ it? It can’t tell you anything more than you already know. Unless…” His head tilts a little, amusement flattening into thoughtful reticence; almost neutrality. “You want to end them.” He barely waits for a response, and Sherlock doesn’t deign to give him one, before: “Why?”

Sherlock has to fight the urge to tense or let his discomfort at the question show. People don’t usually read him, let alone guess his intentions. It’s somehow uncomfortable. Ironic as well, when he considers how many times he’s managed to out-think or anticipate others. He’s not certain he enjoys being on the receiving end. But he has a long-prepared explanation for this that he’s made use of for a while and he doesn’t mind reusing it now. “Because people are using it to prey on others and I might be capable of doing something about it.”

“No, no, _no_.” A grimace twists his face, jutting his jaw and forcing his brow to furrow as his voice pitches oddly, riding the waves of his disappointment. “Not the _morally correct_ answer you’ve fed our contacts—the _real_ one. The one you _actually care about_.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to frown. It’s not entirely untrue. He _is_ annoyed by the blatant misuse of power and the monetising of people’s fears—he’s never been able to tolerate a bully. Especially one that’s been allowed to run about unchecked by those who can put a stop to it. ...which is why he’s willing to admit he needs help. It’s one thing to cross a person, but a large organisation is far more difficult. He has so much more to consider.

But...he’s also aware that’s only half the reason. Much less than half, if he’s completely honest, which is the one thing he thought it might be safer _not_ to currently be—people tend to get cross if he’s honest when it comes to work.

“I think...the knowledge will be fascinating,” Sherlock admits slowly, studying Moriarty as he speaks. _And I want to know if I can do it. Stop it._

A flicker of approval flashes over Moriarty’s face before it settles into something more thoughtful but somehow less genuine. He meanders, slowly, as if he’s unaware of the movement, towards the staircase. Pauses again. For a moment all they do is stare at each other, waiting. Thinking. Moriarty gives in first.

“I don’t have anything here that’d help you.”

It’s as much as Sherlock had expected. He suspects that most of the relevant information is locked away in various trying-not-to-look-too-official buildings, only available to people of the right level of power and authority. Annoying, because he’s certain his brother has access, but he’s also certain he’d rather have a fistfight with one of the larger varieties of beast than ask Mycroft for help with this.

Moriarty affects a shrug and adds: “But I know who _might_ have it, and how to get them to share. If it’s available, I’ll get it for you.”

Sherlock only just manages to hide his relief. Even if the odds are poor, this is better than not looking at all. But...there’s something else he should know before they finalise anything. “How much will it cost me?” he enquires, pleased to find his voice is suitably casual. “None of your former clients would give me an example of your rate.”

“You can’t _afford_ my rate, Sherlock,” Moriarty taunts, flashing him a crooked grin. But he gives it some thought, not allowing Sherlock to lapse too far into indignation, and wets his lips. “Let’s not be bothered by tradition.”

Sherlock inclines his head, willing to listen. He doesn’t know if Moriarty’s correct and the monetary cost would be beyond his means, but he doesn’t mind the concept of an abstract fee—he’s used the same method with his own clients for years.

Moriarty doesn’t need more prompting than that to continue: “You’ve got in my way... _six_ times in as many months. You nearly _ruined_ two arrangements—you’ve put the fear of...well, you into my clients. Even when I See your interference, I can’t avoid you entirely. You’re always underfoot.”

“Glad to be of service,” Sherlock dryly returns, taken aback by the conflicting annoyance and...something like pleased fondness in Moriarty’s tone.

“Not this time. A favour for a favour. You want your information, I’ll get it if it exists, you can count on that. But when I need a favour from you, you’ll do one in return. Whether it’s to drop a case or distract big brother or anything else I need...you’ll do it without any questions beyond the relevant. That’s what I want. We have a deal?”

Sherlock hesitates, just a little. He isn’t concerned about the thought of a favour—yes, he’s slightly wary of what Moriarty might ask him to do, but, even if it is somehow worse than anything Mycroft might have asked him to do, at least it doesn’t come with the lecture or the derision that would come from asking his brother. There’s just a lot to consider, and a lot of questions he’d like to have answered. What Moriarty’s connection to Mycroft is, for instance. And which cases were the ones that had interfered with Moriarty’s work—he hadn’t even been aware that he’d gotten in the way; perhaps if he looked through his recent cases with a more knowledgeable eye Sherlock could determine which they were, but there’s no guarantee. (He finds he’s not surprised by Moriarty’s claim that he can See. Irregardless of if it’s true or not, it works well at being both impressive and threatening to anyone impressed or threatened by power and information—admittedly, having grown up with a Seer who’d known every time Sherlock had tried to hide a lizard in his bed or had stolen his favourite pens somewhat ruined the effect.) And, in the end, neither these questions nor any of the others on his mind really matter beyond the realm of adding additional context or sating his curiosity.

“Of course,” he replies.

Is it his imagination or does Moriarty seem at least a little surprised by his answer? He can’t be certain. Whatever flicker of emotion that slipped out is gone in an instant.

“I’ll contact you when I have something. Off you pop then.”

“...excuse me?”

Moriarty nods back the way Sherlock came, leaning casually on the railing. “Go on. Some of us have work, Sherlock. _Out_.”

Sherlock considers refusing, feeling stubborn. He would’ve liked a chance to ask questions, even just ones relating to the Nightmares, but...that delicate caress of magic doesn’t feel quite so delicate anymore. More like a light taunt of claws or teeth—sharp, but momentarily restrained. And what will it get him but frustration if Moriarty changes his mind just because Sherlock pushed for too much? He forces himself to back down and gives a small, acquiescing nod. _Fine_. Next time they speak, _if_ they speak, he’ll investigate if he hasn’t found anything on his own.

He holds his gaze, one last attempted visual sweep for information. Moriarty doesn’t look away. Doesn’t force it to end. Another moment passes before Sherlock finally relents and starts for the door. He considers glancing back, just to see if he can catch Moriarty unaware. Decides against it.

It’s only once he’s back on the pavement, outside of that lovely illusion, that it occurs to him that he never gave Moriarty a means to contact him. _The website_ , he tells himself, but it doesn’t quite cure the unsettled feeling. Moriarty clearly knows quite a bit about him. It’s definitely time to return the favour. But first he has to make a side trip.

* * *

His cab ride to another corner of London is morose and uncomfortable, curiosity and concern over Moriarty warring with anxiety and guilt for what’s waiting for him at the end of the drive. Sherlock doesn’t even glance out the window, instead he stares at the top edge of his phone case, silently tapping a single finger against the right corner. Thinking, possibly, far too much. It’s his fault. He can admit that entirely without shame—he was the one that elected to retreat from everyone he knows for the last year. To...he’s not certain how to word it— _hide_ , yes—instead of facing his actions or his friends. _If_ they still consider him a friend; he won’t fault them if they don’t. Hurting someone you cared about tends to scare people off. And it probably hadn’t helped that he was utterly inexperienced when it came to dealing with anything like a friend.

For as long as Sherlock can remember friends have been a semi-foreign concept. When he’d been a small child, he’d had Mycroft, Eurus, and Victor— _Redbeard_ —as his only companions. But then Mycroft had grown up, gotten too old for younger siblings or their “silly games”. Sherlock recalls a summer spent exploring the fields and hills near the house; the shallow river he and Victor had played pirates in, sometimes with Eurus and sometimes not. He recalls that, even with the fear of beasts and the occasional weirdness of Victor’s parents not being entirely pleased that their human son was spending so much time in the company of witches, it had felt like it might last forever—or until they were something ridiculously old...like twelve, which had seemed very far away at the time—until the day Sherlock had woken up in a hospital bed to discover his sister, his best friend, and three days had been stolen from him with nothing but the vague memory of screaming and terror in their place.

There weren’t any friends after that. Acquaintances, yes, and people he knew too well but cared too little for. Mostly he was alone. _It’s fine_ , he’d told himself once he’d reached that age where the reality of him—the difficulty he found in relating to others and his endless, unfading inquisitiveness—was no longer awkwardly adorable, but exasperating and unreasonable to everyone but his brother. When even the adults that had previously been charmed by his intelligence and thirst for more eventually joined his peers in no longer appreciating his presence. Alone was good, or so Mycroft had always said. Alone was _better_. Alone kept him safe from most earthly pains and dragged him into the arms of his work. (And into the embrace of cocaine, heroin, and things he doesn’t want to remember as more than a cautionary tale.) Alone worked...until suddenly it _didn’t_.

But then there was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and John—as abruptly as if they’d sprung from his imagination. All of them were content to call him a friend, even though they didn’t seem to understand him any more than he understood them. Then had come Mary, who’d listened and understood what no one else had. It’s her that he’s most hesitant to speak with; he doesn’t want to see her warmth turn to ire. However, she’s also the one he needs to talk to the most.

The taxi stops in front of a white-washed terraced house and, for the first time since he’s gotten into the cab, Sherlock glances out the window. Frowns to himself. This choice is important, if only for what it says about himself: he can either pay and get out, or tell the driver he was mistaken and he wants to be taken to Baker Street instead.

He pays.

The minuscule front garden is more overgrown than he ever recalls seeing it, but somehow idyllic for it. It seems warmer, cosier, than its fellows. Nostalgia, he suspects. His defences being lulled by the memory of dinners had and cases discussed. He only allows himself a moment of hesitation before steadying himself, marching up to the door, and ringing the bell. (It’s a bit funny, he’ll admit, that this is the second time today that he’s found himself pausing outside the house of someone who’s given every indication that he's welcome, for no logical reason he can discern beyond feeling unsettled with himself.)

Movement and one-sided chatter slowly become audible from the other side of the door. There’s a brief moment of pause before the door opens and—

“ _Molly_ ,” he greets, voice stilted with surprise as his mind hurries to register her.

“Oh, it’s you!” she blurts, attempting a weak smile after a second has passed. There’s a touch of breathlessness to her tone, as if she’s been laughing and is inclined to continue, but there’s also something sad, growing sadder with every passing moment, about her eyes. Warm brown and soft, like a favoured blanket. Currently a battleground of concern, disappointment, and awkward affection. She doesn’t seem to know what to say any more than he does. Which isn’t entirely new. There’s always been something left unsaid lingering behind her words _and_ silences; it’s an expected part of Molly’s company by now. “...I didn’t expect to see you.”

 _Obvious_. No one’s expected to see him in some time. Sherlock gives her a small nod of acknowledgement. Idly taps a finger against his thigh from where his hands are hidden in his coat’s pockets, the repetition soothing as he wills himself to find the right words. And immediately feels as if he fails. “You look....well?”

“I am. Thanks.” But Molly doesn’t quite sound certain, or like she believes herself. An indelicate pause follows the words. “We’ve missed you—seeing you around. It hasn’t been the same without…”

He knows. This isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation in the past few months. Mrs. Hudson in particular has been keen to restart it with every couple weeks that go by without some form of communication between him and his friends. But it’s not that easy to ease back into speaking with them. The feeling that he’s failed them and his own expectations—the fear that they’ll realise his abilities are bound to his mortality, as anyone else’s are, and that he’s occasionally lacking and limited and not worth their time for it. He finds he’s been absently counting the stripes on Molly’s jumper and realises, with a pang, that he doesn't know how to word any of that in a way that doesn’t sound self-flagellating or annoyingly sulky.

Molly saves him from having to find an excuse. “...did you want to see Mary?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies a little too quickly. “Thought I might...surprise her.”

The way Molly’s half-smile tightens at the edges quite plainly says that not only does she think he’ll succeed, but that it’s a rubbish idea. “... _okay_.”

She steps aside enough for him to slip past her and into the house. At once he’s drenched in nostalgia. The warm tones of the wallpaper and furniture; the smells of old perfume and cologne layered amongst spells and something baking in the kitchen. It’s comfortable. Cosy. He’s aware that he could easily, dangerously, fall back into familiar routines without any trouble whatsoever. It’s a trap he needs to avoid, at least for the moment. Thankfully, Molly doesn’t try to make him wait or speak—she just leads him through to the kitchen once he’s shed his coat and scarf.

Mary looks up from some mail as they enter; her daughter, Rosie, looking wide-eyed around in her arms. Her smile does an odd thing, as if it’s attempting to hold back a sheer torrent of conflicting emotions but can’t quite manage it. For once, Sherlock thinks he might know exactly how she feels. His emotions seem trapped in the base of his throat, somewhere between happy and anguished, as well.

“Sherlock…” It’s nearly a sigh.

He attempts a smile in response and only succeeds at a hesitant, apologetic grimace.

Silence, itchy and restless, spreads between them, the only one immune seeming to be Rosie as she stares about with wide, unknowing eyes. The past year and everything unsaid sits in the middle of the room like an unexploded bomb, ticking away to some unseeable countdown. Instead of an outburst of emotion, there’s a brief respite—Mary hands Rosie to Molly with a bit of nearly-cheerful chatter. He barely registers any of it, taking the moment to carefully look them over. Rosie’s almost unrecognisable in how much she’s grown since he last saw her, but he thinks Molly and Mary both look well enough. A little older, a little more worn, but in decent spirits.

But then Molly leaves with Rosie and Sherlock’s anxiety feels worse for it. He should greet her, attempt some measure of normalcy, but he can’t.

“I wanted—” he cuts off his hurried words with a frown— “I nearly contacted you so many times, but I…” The syllables catch, sticky and scraping, in the back of his throat.

Mary’s expression is far more gentle than he thinks he deserves; tired, yes, but as warm and welcome as it’s ever been. “Why didn’t you?”

 _—It’s nearing midnight and pouring outside when they finally return to Baker Street, chatting and laughing about a case they’ve just wrapped up. It’s really too late for any human, not just John, to be out but they both maintain that it’s_ fine _; John’s been out late for cases before and he’s got spells to protect him. It’s nothing to worry about even if he_ has _been a little twitchy tonight. They both make a point of lowering their voices as they step inside, Mrs. Hudson’s probably asleep and neither of them want to chance waking her, but their good humour continues regardless. John’s staying the night for convenience’s sake and neither of them feel inclined to ruin the mood while it’s nice and warmly nostalgic. They leave their coats by the door. John kicks off his shoes. After a moment or two, Sherlock leaves to change while John gets a drink and starts to get settled in._

 _He’s mostly pulled on some of his warmer pyjamas when he hears a glass break in the living room._ Odd. _There’s no sounds of distress from John or any disruption to the wards that might suggest someone was trying to break in._

 _Sherlock doesn’t remember finishing dressing or even returning to the living room, but he_ does _remember John. Limbs oddly elongated, muscles cartoonishly-grown in odd patches; oversized teeth and nails growing where they shouldn’t be. He’d never seen a living beast’s eyes or their mottled pupils up close before. He backs away, wanting distance, but beasts, regardless of their friendship status, are fast and bloodthirsty and Sherlock’s cut off before he can move very far. For the first time in memory, he instinctively pulls on his magic without thinking of the consequences and gives him an almost-warning shot-like jolt—enough to hopefully rouse him out of it if possible. There’s only a snarl in response. Sherlock backs away when John moves toward him. He has maybe three seconds to think. He_ could _ward himself into a bubble, keep safe until the morning and hope John returns to normal or call Lestrade for help, but there’s a chance John might wander off in search of easier prey if this transformation_ is _permanent; he can’t let Mrs. Hudson be put at risk for this. But the problem is that, hours later, when everything’s done, he’s not certain he’d registered that as a reason or option to act upon. John lunges for him. Sherlock pulls furtherly on his magic, panic taking over where it shouldn’t be allowed, and, a second or so later, John’s body is consumed by preternatural flames that touch and are touched by nothing but him. And Sherlock can do nothing but watch, screaming filling his ears, until the flames choose to die out.—_

He averts his eyes, wets his lips. Guilt is busy clawing a hole into the depths of his diaphragm, but his voice is fortunately steady. “Because...I _killed_...him. I assumed I’d make things worse. For you.”

“You didn’t even come to his funeral,” she says, a note of accusation making the last few syllables wobbly. She crosses her arms in front of her, loose but protective, and doesn’t look away.

It would be awkward to admit that he _had_ gone. He’d kept himself removed from the others, lingered as far away as he thought he possibly could be while keeping the funeral in view, but he’d still been there. He’d just assumed no one would want to speak with him. Unfortunately, that, and any other excuses he might consider, sound pathetically inadequate.

“I’m not angry with you for killing him, Sherlock,” Mary adds when the silence lingers a moment too long. Her gaze has softened, just a touch, when he finally meets her eyes again. “I know that’s what you think, but I’m not. How could I be? If you didn’t, someone else _would_ have and it wouldn’t just be him that’s dead. And John—” she hesitates on an unsteady breath, gathering herself— “he wouldn’t have wanted to be like that. Or to kill you or Mrs. Hudson.” Another hesitation, this one sharper. More pointed. “But I _am_ disappointed. I trusted you with my past, with my secrets, but you couldn’t trust that I’d still be here? You couldn’t _talk_ to me?”

“I’ve always trusted you.” It’s an easy admittance, even if the attachment it implies is, on some level, alarming. _I was afraid. It was easier to push you away preemptively_. But that...Mary would understand that. Even if she didn’t agree with it, she’d understand. He almost forces the words out as he continues: “I _am_...sorry. This isn’t—I’m not good at this—”

“No; you’re not.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch, barely repressing a small smile at Mary’s tone—honestly blunt but light enough to be teasing. “—but I _have_ always trusted you. I owed you better than that.”

Her shoulders sag. Midway through the gesture, Mary stops and, with a glance toward the clock on the wall, turns to check the oven. A half-baked pie sits inside, leaking some filling onto a baking sheet, the edges not-yet beginning to turn golden. “You don’t owe me anything,” she murmurs with her back to him, almost too quietly as she concludes her prodding and closes the oven door. “But you _are_ my friend. I’d hoped we could at least talk.”

For a brief moment, Sherlock considers apologising again and making an excuse to leave. But, as evidenced by his turmoil over the last year, he’s never been comfortable with his own cowardice nor with hiding from the things that inspire it. Besides, he’s missed her and the time they spent together. Even if John’s gone, he cares too much to flee now; it’s not as though spending time with Mary and Molly is a chore. And, even with his awkward indifference to children, he hasn’t spent enough time with Rosie to be more than mildly concerned.

Sherlock pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and drops into it. “About?”

There’s a moment of hesitation as Mary looks at him, as if her words need a moment to start up. “How you’ve been. _Where_ you’ve been. How much Rosie’s grown.”

“Life?”

“Life.”

For another moment, neither says anything. They don’t know where to begin. Once they do, the day begins to slowly unfold before them. The subject of what they’ve been up to is an easy option for discussion. Mary talks about Rosie and work at the surgery with exhausted cheer—he’s always appreciated her ability to compartmentalise, to accept when something bad happens and work through it without letting it rule her, and the way she can find a smile even when the world’s falling apart—and Sherlock tells her about his search for Nightmares. When Molly rejoins them, the conversation shifts briefly to her current boyfriend and then to a strange body at the morgue before turning to Rosie. Sherlock doesn’t understand the fascination with babies that people seem to have, but he likes the fondness and pride that fill both women’s voices when they discuss how much she’s grown and learnt. She looks very small to his eyes. Small and fragile, staring about with fascination and delight in between naps.

As Mary convinces him to stay for pie and an early dinner, he can’t help but feel a surge of frustration with himself for hiding for so long. It’s too late to do anything for John, but the people he still has are more than worth protecting and spending time with. He smiles a little. He may not always feel as if friends suit him, but, right now, he’s aware that he’s precisely where he needs— _wants_ to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta and her girlfriend reminded me that some people will probably want context for the Bloodborne stuff if anyone hasn't played, so if anyone does, let me know and I can give some gameplay recs? I hope all of you are enjoying the fic! <3 Thanks for reading. Next chapter might be a tiny bit of a wait.
> 
> ...and sorry, John, for setting you on fire, I guess?


End file.
